


Disciplinary Action

by Aniphine



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Depends on Who You Ask, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/M, Fingerfucking, Fingering, Lemon, Light Dom/sub, Maxson/SS, Military Kink, Power Dynamics, Power Kink, Power Play, Smut, Ummmm omg, Vaginal Fingering, a more than a bit on the kinky side??, abusing authority in all the right ways, an unprofessional use of the Prydwen's bridge, authority kink, coat kink apparently, disciplinary action of the sexual nature, dubious training tactics, fight me, haha i'm so good at coming up with titles /cries, handjob, heavy use of taunting, mild choking, or a newly implemented reward system for behaving I should say, or heavy for that matter, sub/dom, that's right maxson is so hot he doesn't even need to use his cock, yes sir kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 13:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aniphine/pseuds/Aniphine
Summary: Maxson can't tolerate the Sole Survivor's insubordination any longer, but doesn't want to break her spirit. Just give her a reason to actually heel when he whistles. Sole couldn't care less about the Brotherhood's goals, but recognizes a touch of real, raw, human instinct in Maxson that he's not willing to share. She'll pry it out.





	Disciplinary Action

**Author's Note:**

> POV changes are indicated by –Maxson-, -Clarissa-, but it’s all one scene. 
> 
> Clarissa is my chaotic Sole Survivor, who may or may not have opened fire in the Institute as soon as White Coat Old Dude, who she thinks was a mastermind McBaddy, not Shaun, showed his face. In my iteration, she realized the kid in the tank was just a synth, and thinks the Real Shaun is being held elsewhere, so she bailed after mowing down a good portion of the place. She hasn’t been clued in to her own tragic fuckup yet, but that’s not what we’re here for. 
> 
> On with the Maxson smut. I am… so sorry… for what you’re about to read.

**_-Maxson-_ **

Maxson’d had just about enough of her, but kept his tone _professionally_ scathing nonetheless.

“I’ve received information that indicates the Institute is on high alert, and you’re the one to blame. I’m extremely disappointed in you, knight.” Maxson said.

Clarissa stood on the bridge of the Prydwen and, and despite being suspended a hundred feet above the ground, she spoke as confidently as if she owned the ground she stood on. Reported as vaguely as humanly possible what had happened inside the Institute once she’d been teleported within.

“I did what I had to do,” she finished, just as unconcerned.

“You directly disobeyed orders,” he reaffirmed with a solid tone that would’ve cracked the façade of any recruit.

He wasn’t sure he could consider her a recruit – not really, not anymore. She wouldn’t take their armor, she skated less than gracefully through most proceedings. He tolerated it because she was good in combat, she was motivated, she _had_ followed orders with a certain degree of sarcasm and flippancy. She wasn’t _truly_ one of them, but she could be. One of their best.

If this rebellious streak was snapped out of her.

“I…” She paused; the first sign of actual struggle. “…don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want to you begin acting like a soldier and take responsibility for your actions,” he snapped. If it was even close to the first time, if it was anything but a crucial breakthrough she’d just squandered, he might’ve felt a desire to be lenient.

She placed her hand on her hip, but her spine was stock straight. Her eyebrow rose, but her expression was still steady in its disregard. “I stand by my actions. I didn’t go into the Institute just for the Brotherhood. I wasn’t about to just tinker along like a tin soldier even when the ones who ruined my family were standing right there.”

“Your personal matters are your personal matters, and have no place in your line of duty.”

“My duty is to my common sense.”

“Your refusal to recognize authority will not be accepted,” he said, resolute. “What you did before you became a knight, what you do in the Commonwealth amongst the half-baked militia and others is objectionable, but can be tolerated. You may act wantonly of your own accord in the rest of the Wastes, but you are under command here. You follow orders.”

“Or what, you’ll punish me, Maxson?” she returned with a bite of sarcasm, that insubordinate, disregarding smile on her face. Shit eating – that’s what it was.

“That is a very realistic outcome of the next few moments, knight,” he threatened, as levelly as ever. “You are not untouchable, despite what you may believe.”

She raised a very fine eyebrow. “Do you want to touch me then?”

The gentle tilt of her head, the challenge in her eyes, the honey in her voice. The first line had been a prod, and now the mood of the room had shifted entirely, as far as she was concerned.

“You are about to receive a demotion, knight,” he snapped, to get control of her as much as the situation. And, in a small part, to refocus himself. “I suggest you take this _very_ seriously.”

“How will I know unless you prove me wrong?” she sauntered a little closer.  Not even a desk between them. Just his body and hers, and the great expansive window behind them.

Maxson was torn between anger, pure authoritative fury raining down on her…

…And something he could, in some measure, admit was respect. For a woman who may even be equal to his own power in her own way; in how she had come from a sheltered Vault and then suddenly found herself toe to toe with the greatest organizations of this area. She was steady in her beliefs, steady in her actions, and in any setting but this, he might have actually found her humorous.

Then there was that third feeling, which he knew _firmly_ was _not_ to be addressed. It had fluttered up now and then, just a wisp of smoke in the wind, but it was there. Acknowledged but filed away where it belonged.

“Your complete disregard for this institution, your rank, and your superiors is wearing thin on my patience,” Maxson said without waver, hands crossed behind his back, staring her down through she now invaded his space two steps further than any other human being on this ship would have dared. “Paladin Danse put his own reputation on the line for you. He is subject to punishment along with your actions.”

“Oh, right. The loyal boy in steel.” Her eyes flicked down in a show of considering it, then shrugged, gaze snapping back. Black curls bunched on her right shoulder as she cocked her head. “I was supposed to care about his peacocking? Because it seems I really don’t – less than I do about the rest of the tin brigade snapping here and spouting there about honor, duty, towing the line. What’s the point of it, really? When you can just do whatever you want, and get away with it.” Her mouth curved into a devilish smile, voice a low hum. She sauntered closer, steps purposeful and delicate even in those thick boots.

“Keep your distance, knight,” he commanded firmly, jaw working, the confusion between moments solidifying into pure focus.

“No,” she said, a stride closer, and said it with such defiance that it was all but a slap to the face.

He gripped her by the scuff of her shirt, so tight it nearly cut off her airway, dragging her close until they were mere inches apart. He watched as her eyes flared, a sudden intake of breath that was a cut short and held. Maxson’s jaw set so tightly; the unquestioning wrath across his features could have been carved from marble. Crushing, but never out of place.

“I’ll have you court-martialed,” he threatened, and in that moment, out of pure insult, he could’ve meant it. Pure authoritarian sense telling him he’d allowed this to go on for _far_ too long.

A faint note rose in the back of his mind to say she wouldn’t have cared either way. But that was only part of it.  The same reason he hadn’t expelled her, or worse, was the same reason he struggled with now. Maxson didn’t want this vulpine little mercenary to simply follow process – he wanted that unhinged but ruthlessly efficient skill set on his tasks. This spirit required limiting, not breaking.

“No, you won’t,” she hummed, as smooth and as dangerous as a well-sharpened blade. “Because I don’t take orders from you. I don’t take orders from anyone, and we both know it.”

He wasn’t sure he _could_ break it. But at the very least, it needed a leash he could tug on. Only… What treat to entice the little fox _with_? A limiter he could reach if and when he _needed_ her to follow orders. A whistle that _would_ make her heel.

Clarissa leaned closer, pressing against him, wrapping her fingers around the hand that had seized her as if it weren’t threatening at all. Maxson’s jaw couldn’t tighten any further, and he refused to acknowledge the ring of energy that shot down his middle. Her thigh brushed up against his, her thick, stolen Courser ensemble dulling the sensation, but the pressure was still decisive.

“How far could you really take it? Hmm? Would you _execute_ me, Elder?” Clarissa hummed, satisfied with pushing boundaries, and as he was gathering now, mostly pushing _him_. Whatever the cost, she rode high on that addiction. “Would you have the guts to do it yourself?”

Maxson caught himself at a few heartbeats of actually finding it funny. This little minx with a habit for crossing lines that few men with twice her experience had the bravery, or the reckless force of will, to cross. If he could cage, or even redirect this chaotic passion, and center her clear-headed abilities where they were necessary…

By God, what a power he’d have in his hands.

“No one can order me in this Commonwealth, because no one has what it takes. Do you..?” she stretched her chin until the naked skin of her neck was open to him, her lips closer. “…Have what it takes?” Her teeth bared just slightly as her eyes stared at his mouth, as if she might bite.

Not every recruit responded well to the same training, Maxson knew. Being able to adjust your tactics was half the task. 

“You’re pushing your luck, Clarissa,” he used her name, a dangerous tone meant to cut past the skin.

A gentle flush rose to her cheeks, something flickering in her eyes that was too well-schooled to actually blossom and reveal a definition. “Put me in my place then. If I’m just an insubordinate soldier, then put me back in line. Make me respect your authority. Because I don’t think you can do that, not to the first little uniform who ever called your bluff-”

Maxson exploded into a flurry of movement.

**_-Clarissa-_ **

He had her slammed up against one of the metal support beams on either side of the main deck, her arm pinned behind her back, the bar of the strut pressed so tightly into her right shoulder that actual pain shot up her neck.

Momentarily stunned from the impact, Clarissa still could’ve gotten out of it. It would’ve taken her socket with it, considering his weight, considering his size, but she could’ve.

Instead, she shivered when his voice vibrated against her ear, so close, just on the light side of baritone. It rumbled all the way down her skin.

“You will submit to your commanding officer, knight, or there will be consequences.”

Wrong. In that instant, they were not soldiers, not subordinate and commander, but fighters. Because somewhere down deep Maxson was a _combatant,_ and she wanted to prove for even one moment there was something as raw as the rest of the Wasteland in there. He was more than a tin soldier; he was the only one with a beating heart in this bunch, and beating hearts didn’t hide behind speeches and rhetoric – they moved on instinct.

He had some instinct down there somewhere.

“Make me, Maxson. Put me in my place, because I don’t think you ca- _ah_.” Her voice cut off with a gasp as she felt the firm, insistent pressure of his hand sliding between her legs. The feeling of him palming her, the thick brown Institute coat bunched at his wrist to provide access, sent shivers down her legs. She tried to recover herself, but dizziness swelled from the sudden thrill of it.

_Oh_ , that was nice.

She bit her lip to find composure, a choking wave of delight surging up through her lungs, but she wouldn’t go down that easily. She blinked back the fog already drawing in her eyes and tilted her head back against him. Twisting her neck despite the added pressure it placed on her shoulder, so she could whisper, nearly into his mouth. “If you want me to heel, then you’re going to have to give me a reas- _ssonn_.”

His hand insisted with greater pressure, calloused but unquestionably seasoned fingers stroking so the padding and seam of her clothing worked against her. Her legs pressed closed instinctively, and that only made it worse.

“So unwavering now, knight?” his voice taunted in her ear, shamefully placing words in time with each firm caress. His fingers curled up and dragged across the material, somehow precise despite the layers as he withdrew his hand, its presence reestablished temptingly at the seam of her thigh.

Clarissa’s lungs were suddenly empty, robbing her of the comeback that should’ve already been delivered. This was out of control. Dangerous – but pumping blood in her ears and spike of what, in a rare instance, wasn’t adrenaline in her veins. Something far more intoxicating than that.

“Look at you, trembling. Smelling of the road. Stained with gunpowder.” Maxson’s voice was so low it could’ve been a husky growl, though with an edge reminiscent of when he corrected trainees in the field. The buckles on his thick coat bit into the arm pinned behind her, into the bared flesh where her Courser jacket wouldn’t reach. “In these disgraceful Institute clothes.”

His hand curved tantalizingly further down, pressure and friction sending little but intense sparks up her core. Damn it, if he made her hazy too fast, too soon, then this would be pathetic. No. She wanted him to fight a little.

Her cheek pressed to the cold metal pillar, she taunted over her shoulder, “You hate them so much? Why don’t you do something about it?”

Just as she was about to formulate the next plan, her previous one escalated to success too soon, too well. 

Maxson’s hand undid the buckle of her coat, pulled open the flaps and tugging up her shirt to make way. A small but somehow effortless battle with the fastenings of her pants transpired before the buckle came free. It barely left her time to prepare, to hold her breath, before his hand slid down her belly and between her legs, hot fingers to hotter flesh, burning trails.

She was already wet; had been since that first snap of a reprimand from his voice that was too crisp to be effortless, but sounded it anyways. His finger slid in between her folds and she restrained a sound from her throat. Fingers rubbed with more pressure in a small but precise motion. A punishing touch that was already making her core tighten with pleasing heat.  Not _enough,_ but torturing her nonetheless, meant to undo her, meant to cause her muscles twitch in rebellion.

“Oh dear. This the diss- ciplinary action you give to all the knights? You’ll have to work a bi-it harder to impress me, Elder.” His hot breath ghosted over her neck, the bare crook where her shoulder and throat met. Mint and coffee, a scent overwhelmed by the musk of him this close. His mouth was just flittingly out of reach over her shoulder, though she craved his lips between her teeth. “Or else maybe I’ll put you on your knees instea- _nghh_ _ah_.”

His body pressed up flush against hers, closing the minuscule gap there had been, and the pressure of his hips against her ass igniting a heat which, when combined with his warm, damnably precise fingers, sent a dizzying lightning strike up her core.

“You’ll obey my commands,” he breathed in her ear, a honey on gravel sound that wasn’t a threat but a promise. “Without-“ He picked up the pace, and she involuntarily ground into it. “-question.”

She wasn’t about to question this.

He rubbed more firmly, bare flesh to bare flesh. His fingers worked delicious circles, his body flush with her own, friction and heat, the full weight of him against her, pinning her, warming her, power but somehow gentle, raw but somehow focused. Her breathing grew more rapid.

“You will show proper respect for your commanding officer. Or punishment,” his voice was warm but low, curving around the syllable sinfully, “will be harsh. Just, but unhesitating.” His voice grew taut at the last word, the pattern reversing, and she inhaled.

“What if I want punishment?” she said, somehow, despite herself, low in her throat.

“You should want-“ His finger worked lower, setting new nerves alive just before his finger pressed at her entrance, teasing, so cruelly with the pleasure of anticipation. “- _approval_ more.”

Clarissa stopped breathing altogether.

She would’ve done anything he asked. Anything, just then. Let him put her in her place, putty under his thick, trim hands.

One more push back, and then it would escalate too far, and she didn’t think she’d have the strength to fight any more. Or the will. Or the desire.

That’s precisely why she did it.

“And if I still don’t?” She ground back against his pelvis, the clips of his coat and belt against the smooth layers of her uniform. The layers made it uncertain, but she was certain his desire lingered beneath as well. Testing her range of motion without intention, she found his grip had relaxed, and twisted more to face him. Her lips nearly brushing his, she captured his eyes with her own; sharp but edged with clouds, pupils dilated. “Maxson,” she breathed heatedly against his mouth, all the strength in the world required not to nip at him. “What then?”

There was a flicker and then resolve in that steely gaze of his turned molten, and she held her breath to keep from betraying what that did to her. His hand left the wrist pinned between them and gripped at the fabric just above her breasts, turning her fully and shoving her back against the support beam, too softly to be malicious.

“I will strip you of your rank,” he said, and one firm pull had the high-collared zipper of her coat ripping in two. “Of your uniform.” Another jerk and the buttons of her shirt beneath gave way. “You will be as bare as any wanderer of this Wasteland.” Another pull to open her coat fully, and his hand delved in, pulling down at her worn undergarment, her breasts freed and bared. His right hand slid down between her legs once more, and she swallowed. He gripped at the edge of her open collar, pulling tighter still by the scruff, restricting her air. “Do you understand?”

He pressed a finger inside her, and she couldn’t suppress the shiver, twisting her hands in his coast. “Y-yes.”

The finger delved deeper, and curled.

“Sir!” she added at the punishment. “Yes! Yes, sir!”

She ground wantonly against his hand, desperate for more friction, pulling him closer by the lapels. Then all at once he withdrew, eliciting a whine she never let leave her throat. 

He tugged on the fabric near her hip with one hand. “Onto the sofa.” he commanded.

With only a moment’s hesitation from her, she repositioned to the nearest seat, ripples of worn orange-red upholstery under her back, still clothed in her Courser coat though the front of her shirt had been ruined. He descended on her, tugging at the loosened fastenings of her pants before peeling them off her altogether. She kicked the remains free.

With her situated in the center, Maxson braced one knee on the orange-red leather between her legs, the other over her outer leg and on the ground. Seeing the heat in his eyes, the desire rivaling with his composure to cling to those steel cheekbones and jawline of his, it welled up the remainder of her will. She leaned up, gripping his coat, to pull him down, to capture his mouth in a flurry of need. But his hand found her shoulder and pinned her to the sofa without question. The action stole her breath though the pressure was light.

“No,” he said with a warm, steadfast authority. Looming over her now, his weight on his right knee and left foot in a way only toning each and every muscle he had made effortless. “I tell you when you’re allowed to act, not a moment before.”

She bit her lip. “Yes, _sir_ ,” she murmured, teasing in her eyes that it was still a bad word, maintaining that challenge. Still, somehow, she was in control.

“Part your legs,” he said, and she obeyed. “Farther.”

His fingers played at brief sequence of circles, until she reminded herself to breath.

“Ye- _ah_ \- sir. Yes.”

With this better vantage, she was rewarded for her obedience with his index finger, then his middle delving in, his thumb working away at nerves. The ministrations grew more intense, coiling flashes of heat and an unbearable build up her middle, striking through her limbs.

Her head fell back. “I can’t- any- I’m going t- ta-“

“You won’t act without my permission.” She could feel the softness of his coat against her inner thigh, the harsh fabric of his pants against her outer leg. “That’s an order, knight.” God, the way that sounded on his tongue; a sharp, sterile sentence but soaked in that lower, sinful tone.

True to form, he wouldn’t let her. By this point, she wasn’t willing to deny him, though her body twitched, and whines came where release couldn’t. Dizzy now, lost in it, nearly pained by it.

With silent permission, his fingers gained pace.

New feelings coiling inside her as they pressed and teased, making her hips jerk. It was dizzying with pleasure, promising to overwhelm.  Then she was falling over the edge, leaning forward, arching to wrap around him. Through the daze she half expected him to force her back down, to limit the touch, but he allowed it, a moment of tenderness, perhaps want, as she tumbled over and gripped his jacket. She buried her face in the material, breathing in motor oil and leather and a tinge of sweat as her body became lost in spasms.

Coming down off the high, her body was smoothed over with a wave of pleasing, languid warmth. She left her forehead pressed against his chest, even as he slowly eased his fingers free, rubbing tenderly at her slick sensitivity. His hand wrapped in her coat, drying his fingers. Then still gripping, as if unwilling to let go.

Yet, after a moment, he straightened just as easily and she released him as he stood, as unwavering and decisive as he’d been, she imagined, most of his life.

He couldn’t fool her. She’d been proven right. There was something raw in there, if you were willing to prod insistently enough.

With an all too satisfied daze, she rose as well, towing on her pants when he made it near the door. She was closing her coat, the dark fabric and the thick belt making it easy to fasten and hide where material had been ripped or the zipper tugged into submission.

“Don’t disappoint me again, knight,” he said simply, firmly in that voice that didn’t need effort to be enticing and unforgiving at once. Then the door slid open to the empty adjoining room, and closed once again behind him.

Dressed, Clarissa settled back onto the orange sofa. If this was the result of disappointment… a new quest rose up very high in her priority list. Finding out what in God’s name was pride.

She might not mind this whole, “Yes, sir,” thing after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this back in October but didn’t finish it until now. Do I suck? The answer is yes. 
> 
> Feel free to drop me a kudo if you made it this far!


End file.
